He stalked away. Robin sat on the ties staring at the ground, his hands clasped over one knee. He appreciated Tex Matthew’s moral backing, but it did not assuage the bitterness in his heart. He had seen a man or two run amuck and die with a smoking gun in hand and he had wondered what drove a man to such desperate measures, what terrible passion made a man court death or inflict death. He knew now. It was no comfort to him that he had punished Thatcher. Thatcher didn’t count. He had played into Steele’s hand.
If he were dead he could not talk about stolen calves. That was all Steele wanted, to stop his mouth or make him leave the country. If he went up against Steele now Mark would have his wish. Matthews had spoken the truth and Robin knew it. With an even break for the draw Mark would kill him before he could get his gun leveled.
And still—when he recalled the look on Steele’s face, the tone of his voice when he twisted Robin’s remark about other men’s stock into an opportunity to put a dirty slur on Ivy and so make Robin appear a fool writhing in jealousy—he wanted a gun now. Chance or no chance! When that feeling surged up in him he felt as if he couldn’t stand living while Shining Mark was free to talk like that. Yet, besides Matthews’ advice, a cold little voice within Robin said that if he did arm himself and go after Steele now he was as good as a dead man. There was an uncomfortable chill in that assurance.
Robin sat deep in thought. He had forgotten where he was. He had become almost oblivious of time and place in brooding. The tempest of passion which had made his heart swell until it seemed as if it would burst had died out and left him depressed, almost sick, as the poison of a great anger often does. He sat there locked up in himself and he did not hear or see May Sutherland until she spoke to him.
“Howdy,” he answered her greeting. But he did not rise nor doff his hat nor act as he would normally have done. He couldn’t seem to think straight. He didn’t understand why she was there at all, nor what she could have to say to him. She belonged in the camp of the enemy. That was natural. When a man attacked the range boss of a big outfit the big outfit always stood behind its own man. He had forgotten that May hated Mark Steele. But May did have something to say to him for she sat down on the ties.
“I heard about that trouble,” she began. “I heard what Mark said to you and you to him. I’m awfully sorry.”
“Don’t know why you should be,” Robin muttered. “Not your funeral.”
“If there is to be a funeral I hope it will be his,” May breathed. “But you are not going to be so foolish as to fight him, are you?”
Robin smiled bleakly.
“You think a man should lie down and let another man walk over him?” he asked.